What do I want with your little, shrinking love? See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above, I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry— And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky! You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses, I will fly off and forget.... Ah! II How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”: You will not answer now, “it grows so late”— And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate! Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word! Listen a little while—you turn away. What? Your head droops.... You are frightened? Run in and hide. _Westminster Bridge_ (_June Night_) The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink, Slide swiftly circlewise and fade To where the West is olive-pink And rosy mists the river shade. And sullen, purposeful and strange The silent stream glides on, beneath The patient bridge that will not change, And all the city holds its breath. Then gazing towards the sunken sun A pale girl eyes his lingering gleam, A soul whose little day is done, For whom will come no night, no dream. 1908. _Gladstone Terrace_ A very sordid street of red and green— Red houses and green paint—but in between Each villa lies a little garden space Cherished on Summer Sundays. See his face, (A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats, Tending the strawberries which his baby eats! A fool is he, not virtuous, but content: He hears no wings of God omnipotent, Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath. Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride, For see, what hopes and longings here reside, What gracious mysteries of love and death. _Front Doors_ (_Bayswater_) From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square The streets have an inhuman air, The houses—(six imposing floors; Dark, formidable, fierce front doors; Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind; Ball-room or billiard-room behind)— Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold, None but the ugly and the old.... Watch, as you wander hereabout, The people who go in and out! Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats, Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats, Flock in procession, pompous, grand, Or drive in motors to the Strand; And massive women, towering high, Dart glances from a hawklike eye, Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze, Then drive (to train for several teas), Snub the companion, pat the dog, Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.